


Ghost

by TheDistantDusk



Series: Canon Hinny one-shots (all ratings, no order) [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, DH missing moment, F/M, Harry and Ginny Discord's Wangst Fest, Sad Wank, Wangst, wankst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26237635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: Ginny’s not here. She can’t be here. And yet… he hears her, plain as day, her whisper washing over him like a warm May breeze.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Series: Canon Hinny one-shots (all ratings, no order) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064753
Comments: 13
Kudos: 75





	Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Harry/Ginny discord's unofficial "wankst" challenge! ;) 
> 
> Thanks to Flo for the beta and ideas!

Harry didn’t know winter could be this miserable.

He lies on his camp bed, rain hammering the side of the tent, and swears his skin shivers against his bones. The beige canvas of the tent is the only break from the gray and bleak outside… from scenery so dull and dreary it looks like it’s been meticulously doused with paint the color of dried ash. And truly, the canvas isn’t much of a break, either. Harry sighs, resting his glasses on the soggy floor, and wonders what he wouldn’t give for the tiniest sliver of sunshine. For the tiniest glimpse of—

He swallows, gritting his teeth against the unbidden image of her bright red hair, dancing over her shoulders. Of her nose scrunching as she laughs. Of the wide-eyed, breathless look she gave him when…

 _No_.

Fucking hell, he’s pathetic, isn’t he? Everything _about_ him is bloody pathetic. His pathetically desperate cock jumps to life in his pathetically large trousers, all over the memory of a girl he shouldn’t have been with in the first place. Can’t be with again. _Ever_.

Harry groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, and wonders (not for the first time) how it’s possible to feel so lonely when there’s technically another person here. Hermione’s outside, on watch for the night, but they haven’t spoken much in days. Or maybe they have, but Harry doesn’t remember. Their communications certainly haven’t contained a degree of substance. There’s nothing to say, really, beyond grunts and muffled apologies as they brush past each other. Nothing’s been the same since Ron left… absolutely nothing. It’s just been a blur of cold and gray and ice. An endless movie reel of the most distorted, miserable images flashing _quickly quickly quickly_ , one right after the other, each one darker and colder than the last. There’s no break. It’s constant. And he reckons this is how life will be forever, too, if—

_“Don’t you think you deserve a break?”_

He shudders, setting his jaw. He’s not completely lost the plot. Ginny’s not here. She _can’t_ be here. And yet… he hears her. Fuck, he hears her, plain as day, her whisper washing over him like a warm May breeze.

_“Yes,” repeats the whisper, more insistently than before. “You deserve it.”_

And maybe he listens because his soul is crying out for reassurance. Maybe it’s because he’ll gladly take her haunting, silky whisper over the sneering seeds of doubt that the locket plants in his brain. Maybe it’s because Hermione has the locket in the first place.

Or maybe it’s simply because beneath the grim darkness, he’s still just a teenage boy who hasn’t done this in what feels like a thousand dreary winters.

_“C’mon, Harry,” she coaxes again. “Let me help you. Pull down your trousers and—”_

He lets out a startled gasp as his fist slides over the head of his cock. Even he wasn’t aware he’d started, but with a sigh of acquiescence, he starts to pump. But it’s not him, is it? No… not really. It’s her. It bloody _has_ to be her, with lilting laugh and red hair spread out behind her like a velvet curtain. Then with her eyes half-opened and unfocused, her knees parted and rocking against his thigh. _Fuck_. She whimpers, her head thrown back, her hips swirling, and though Harry’s certain he doesn’t command it, his hand picks up the pace too.

Then the scene shifts, just as suddenly as it arrived. Only this one is different. It’s both painfully familiar and agonizingly out of reach, something that manifested from his wildest daydreams, something that taunts him, plays with him, beckons with a ghostly finger of a future that will never come to pass.

Ginny’s next to him in bed, propped on her elbow, her freckled chest blooming with a flush that’s spread to her cheeks. The whole room is white, bathed in sunlight. When she’s right in front of him he doesn’t need sunlight, though… not when he can almost see her hair and feel her grin. Not when he can bask in _her_.

She hadn’t said a word, but he knows she’s already come. That’s what her skin looks like, right after she does: all blotchy and red and absolutely glorious, proof that he’s able to please her. Proof that he’s made her happy, even if only for the tiniest whisper of a second.

But now it’s his turn, clearly, because her hand jerks harder beneath the duvet, so hard that her breasts shift and bounce. He’d beg to see more of them, to see more of her, but he’s already so fucking close he doesn’t think he’ll get a word out. His head swims as her fist jerks harder and harder, pleasure surging through him as he clings to the bleary crest of what’s about to be.

“Come for me,” she says, leaning in so her rosy nipples brush against his arm. “Come for me, Harry... but not too loudly.” She pulls back with a wink, even as she’s got him hovering on the edge. “Don’t wake the ba—“

And just as before, he does exactly as she asks. He comes with a grunt that shatters the fantasy, arching his back against the cot as he spills over his clenched fist again and again and again. Each wave is supposed to make him feel better; he understands that, even if it’s only biology. But this time, he just feels worse. He feels dirty. Disgusting. Cold. Like a worthless, shivering pile of hormones, and now he’s one that’s freezing and sticky.

He makes a face and cleans himself, unsurprised that her ghostly voice is gone. Unsurprised that he’s all alone as the rain pounds down on the canvas. Because alone is all he’s ever deserved, especially when it comes to her.

He pulls up the scratchy covers, his feet dangling over the edges of the too-small camp bed. But as he closes his eyes, it’s not her voice that sounds for a final time in the darkness: it’s his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and plaintive.

Then the world fades to black, drifting to a world that will never be as beautiful as the one he’s imagined. Because lovely things like that don’t happen… not for him.


End file.
